A Viera and a Hume
by ZoraAngel
Summary: A collection of themes that support the Fran/Balthier pairing. Short and sweet, and now COMPLETE!
1. Hair

_Hair_

Fran tugs angrily at the hairbrush as it catches on yet another knot. The viera, for all her otherworldly grace, is apparently not immune to the mortal concept of helmet hair. She struggles with the long, silvery tangle for what seems like hours, but is only minutes.

Fran is not one for pointless vanity, so it is not through a mirror that she sees his reflection, but a window. He is leaning against the door frame in that casual way of his, arms crossed comfortably over his chest. Somehow, she feels a surge of annoyance at the way he stands there, thinking she does not see him. She picks up a pair of scissors, hoping to shock, to elicit some sort of response other than that the strange, intense regard.

As her hand closes over the handle, she feels a sudden rush of air. He doesn't say anything, and she doesn't say anything, and the scissors are almost roughly pulled from her grasp. Fran watches him swap scissors for hairbrush and begin to work out all of the the tangles. Idly, she wonders how many women he had done this for in the past. She pictures each one of his 'lady friends', but none of them had particularly long hair.

She closes her eyes. Her hair is as smooth as spiderweb silk, but still he does not stop brushing. She finds herself relaxing. That is, until she hears the sound of the hairbrush clattering onto the desk. Now he is running his fingers through her hair.


	2. Soot

_Soot_

She has spent all morning in the engine room with Balthier. His beloved _Strahl_ has not been running well of late, so that whenever the sky pirate heard the spluttering thrum of the engines, he grimaced.

It was Fran who suggested they cease delaying the inevitable, and take a look at the engine. Balthier, breathing out a long sigh, reluctantly agreed. He had taken off his vest and rolled up his sleeves, preparing for the heartbreak that was to come. Fran had watched him with some bemusement, for the ship was as cold and inanimate as the Wood was lively and green.

"Wrench, Fran," Balthier mutters. A grease-blackened hand emerges from underneath the inner workings of the ship, and Fran passes him the tool. Folding onto her knees, she reaches into a panel and makes her own repairs.

Usually there would be banter, mostly from Balthier and his upper-class drawl, but not today. Fran almost finds it cute the way he is concentrating so hard on his repairs that he cannot afford a single, lazy quip.

Finally, the clinking sounds of metal falls silent, and Balthier slides out from the engine. He looks... Fran bites her lip, holding in her mirth. A mess.

His arms are blackened to the elbows, with grease threatening to stain his sleeves even higher than the rolled-up cuffs. His hair sticking up in all directions, a far cry from the neatly combed style he usually wore. His shirt, [his fine, white shirt!] is all but ruined. But he is smirking, that trademark smirk of his, like he _meant_ to appear before her looking as ridiculous as he did.

"Lost in my eyes Fran, hmm?" he asks, shouldering the wrench.

Fran's mouth quirks up into a smile. Damned sky pirate. No one so vain should have that kind of confidence in the face of such...unkemptness. She has a sudden, mad urge to fluster him, to break through his barrier of charms and smiles.

Without knowing why, she slowly walks over to him, silent. She stands a little closer than necessary, but she knows Balthier will not step back. The smirk never drops from his face, yet his eyes are watching her.

Fran reaches out and touches a sooty smear on his chin, wiping it off with her thumb. He seems completely at ease, but she knows better. He breathing stopped when she touched him, and all the grease in the world couldn't hide the slight blush spreading across his cheeks.


	3. Words

_Words_

He wonders if she knows.

Balthier has always relied on an elegant turn of phrase to get his point across, but somewhere in the tangle of flowery language his original meaning has gotten lost. Fran already puts down his endearments to mock-love, never noticing the caressing quality of his tone with each 'dear heart' that passes his lips.

He smirks to himself. Fran has proven surprisingly thick in matters of the heart for someone so intelligent. The woman can calculate the landing velocity of an airship within seconds, yet ask her why her partner fantasizes about combing out her silken hair and she would have no clue.

Perhaps it was his fault. When they first met, he had made it clear that their partnership was, just that, a business proposition and nothing more. Fran had been suspicious of his intentions, having rejected enough advances from hume males in bars, and it had taken much convincing [and nonchalance] on Balthier's part to assure her of his honourable intentions.

He chuckles. Sky pirating, honourable?

"You are amused, Balthier?" Fran asks beside him. Balthier swivels in the pilot's seat to look at his partner.

"I was just considering the respectability of our profession, my love," he replies easily. One would be surprised to discover that he is generally an honest man, and says exactly what he means in his own, roundabout sort of way.

"A change of heart from the sky pirate?" challenges Fran.

"I could never give up this charmed existence," says Balthier with a languid smile.

In the past few years they've been together, Balthier has noted that Fran has become quite adept at this dance of words, and yet some things still puzzle her.

"I too, have grown to love the sky," Fran says after a pause.

"Yes," Balthier agrees simply. Fran raises an eyebrow.

"In this, you do not hide behind your words," she notes.

"Quite possibly, you are surprised that I am capable of stopping after one syllable," he says casually, but he is suddenly awash with thought.

He had never thought of this dance as a distraction, but perhaps that is the reason why Fran cannot read him. His words, no matter what meaning is disguised within, sound nothing but flippant. He has to stop hiding behind them.

"Fran," he begins.

Fran looks at him closely, She can hear the change in his tone.

"What I meant to say was, this life I have, with you, I could never give it up." He takes her hand. "Fran, I-"

The door bangs violently open.

"Goddammit Vaan!" growls Balthier.

"Sorry Balthier!" says Vaan quickly, putting up his hands. "Just looking for Penelo."

"Well then, it seems your only course of action is to _keep looking_."

Vaan accepts the dismissal and flees the room. Balthier sighs and turns his attention back to Fran. She is finishing off a glass of water, her eyes remote. He knows the moment is gone. Idiot lad. Getting to his feet, he decides to follow his leading lady's example.

"Fran, I'm getting a drink. Do you wish for me to bring you something?" he asks. No response. Is she ignoring him? "Fran?"

Her furred ears twitch. "Yes?" she responds breathlessly. Balthier hears the sharp ring of glass striking the floor. What's this? The wise, beautiful and ever so coordinated Fran has dropped her glass?

"Do you want another drink?" Balthier asks, watching her carefully.

Yes, it is there. He can see her disappointment, as if she was expecting him to say something else entirely.


	4. Healing

_Healing_

Balthier's left shoulder is marred by a bloody slash, and the arm hangs nervelessly on his side. He looks to the creature lying in the grass as it begins to sink into the ground. a sky pirate's dagger sheathed triumphantly in its chest. He should collect it, he knows, but if he moves now, he'll fall flat on his face in front of Fran.

"How about that then?" he asks of no one in particular.

"Good work Balthier," comes the steady voice of Basch. It reaches his ears blurred and distorted. He feels tired. Maybe that's why he doesn't remember putting on a red shirt that morning. Yes, it is just a little fatigue.

"Balthier!" someone calls insistently. He redirects his attention to the source of the voice. Big mistake. The ground tilts, obligingly coming up to meet his head. Ah, this is better. Now he can have a little sleep. If only it weren't so cold!

No respite. A warm hand slides under his head, lifting it off the ground. He opens his eyes. It's Fran, two-parts sunlight, one-part ice, his Fran. With her moonlight hair streaming behind her like a flag, she is beautiful. He always had a thing for long-haired ladies, but he had never met anyone quite like her before.

"I will heal him," someone offers, and he recognises that voice. The Princess' cool detachment sets off a throbbing pain in his arm. He grimaces.

"No," he mumbles. "No, no, _no_."

"It's alright. The pain must be very great," Ashe reassures him.

She does not know that he is referring to her offer of healing. For some reason, with Fran so close, the thought of _her_ touching him seems wrong. He is very aware of his partner's presence, kneeling behind him and supporting his head with her gentle, yet dangerously clawed hands.

"No," Fran echoes, staring down the princess. She summons up a healing spell and sends it into Balthier's wound. He feels the warmth spread all the way down his arm. He feels giddy, lightheaded and foolish.

And damn it all if he managed to fall flat on his face in front of Fran!

"Ah. that certainly feels much better!" he exclaims, rising gracefully to his feet. "For your ministrations my lady Fran," he adds, lifting her hand into a gentlemanly kiss. "You have my thanks."

Ashe gives Fran a curious, if a little annoyed, look, but Fran does not have time for her.

"Heeding the battle, you were not," she accuses, crossing her arms in an unmistakably Balthier-like gesture.

"True enough. Sometimes the leading man gets distracted, however, what is it about the leading man that we know is always true?" replies Balthier.

"He...never dies," Fran says faintly.

"Precisely m'dear."

Fran says nothing for awhile. Balthier is almost afraid she has turned into a statue, so still she is. He knows well enough, that she is angry, though no one else would be able to tell.

"Fran. That creature was coming for you. It was not my intention to see you hurt."

Fran reaches out and touches his bloodstained shoulder, but remains silent, as if she is thinking something through.


	5. Morning Ritual

**A/N - Reviews are greatly appreciated, even if it is only a theme suggestion. Thank-you to everyone who has supported me so far:)**

_Morning Ritual_

Fran prefers the subtle flavour of steeped tea over Balthier's precious Arcadian coffee. In a way, it reminds her of the Wood, as if she can scent the long-boughed trees and chilled winds through the leaves in the bottom of her cup. It is her morning ritual, and calms her like no other meditation.

Pouring more tea from the pot, Fran hears the early stirrings of her sky pirate partner. From long experience, she knows he will do nothing before drinking his bitter brown coffee. She would have it ready for him, for efficiency's sake, had he not been so particular about the way it was brewed.

"Morning Fran," Balthier says, making a brave show of alertness with sleep-heavy eyes.

"Good morning Balthier," Fran replies.

She watches him as he makes his way over to the silver contraption that she could most likely figure out, were she allowed to touch it. He trusts her with flying his precious _Strahl_, but not this! He is fully dressed, with rolled up sleeves and combed hair, but he is obviously quite tired. Perhaps beneath his teasing candor, something is bothering him. Perhaps, like her, he is disturbed by the recent influx of guests on his airship.

The corner of Fran's mouth tilts up, amused, as Balthier begins to whistle absentmindedly. This is a habit that only appears in the morning, before he is awake enough to judge the silly from the suave. She finds that she rather enjoys seeing this side of him, and hopes that no one else wakes up to intrude on their morning ritual.

"Aaah," he sighs, plonking his mug on the kitchenette table. An earthy aroma rises from the rim and takes away the scent of the Wood.

Fran sips her tea and waits.

Judging himself to be ready to hold a decent conversation, Balthier sets down his drink. "Ready for another day like yesterday?" he asks. They had fought a particularly hard battle in the desert the previous day, made all the more difficult by Vaan's brooding over an argument he had with Penelo.

Fran scowls. "Not all days should be the same as that." The boy's wild swings had nearly taken out the whole party.

"Still, it is important to be tolerant where young love is concerned," Balthier nods sagely.

Fran smiles. "You speak as though you are of a father's age."

Too late, she sees him wince at the reference. What a fool she is, too taken up with hume banter to watch her words! But Balthier sees her turmoil and recovers himself.

"Ah, nothing to worry about Fran," he says simply, and she is reassured.

Her ears twitch. "Company," she informs him. Can she see annoyance in his expression, mirrored by her own?

Ashe slides back the hatch and enters the little room. She greets them both, but Fran sees her eyes linger on Balthier. Her gaze follows him as he takes his mug to the sink and turns on the faucet. She traces the nape of his neck and the line of his broad shoulders, for surely she must, else why would the princess be staring at him for so long?

She still isn't sure about Ashe, this intruder into their lives. Balthier's banter with the prickly princess confuses Fran, just as it seems to give him enjoyment. She misses the days when it was just the two of them, going wherever they willed. No, she has made up her mind, she does not want the princess near Balthier. In this, she is as selfish as a hume, but she wants it.

Intruder aside, it's time to complete the morning ritual. Fran takes Balthier's arm, still damp from the sink, and buttons up his cuff. His hands are still warm from grasping the coffee mug.

"Thank you Fran. Can never get the damned things myself."

She feels eyes stabbing into the back of her head, which are ignored with all due dignity. When she finishes her task, she does not step back. Her hands linger, one step closer than Ashe's searching gaze will ever come. To her surprise, Balthier does not make some smart comment and pull away. For a moment, this moment, she has him, and her hands run over his rings as if to say, _'This hume is mine.'_


	6. Dream

**A/N - Many thanks for the support. Very appreciated:)**

_Dream_

Fran is dreaming.

She is walking through a green field, and as it is with dreams, she knows that she is visiting Balthier. Though why she carries flowers she knows not.

She follows the dirt path up and around a hill, noting the grey clouds that mar the otherwise perfect day. She scents rain on the wind and wonders if the leading man would mind getting a little wet. In some ways he is almost as fastidious as a cat, and she smiles, wondering what he would think of the comparison.

Around the corner, Fran sees a grey monument, and knows she has reached her destination. She is suddenly very aware of the flowers in her nerveless fingers, and their purpose.

The stone slab bears his name, not the real one, but the one he chose for himself. It is a peaceful place, too quiet for one who loved to talk, and too plain for one who took such pride in his appearance. All Fran can do is stand there and stare, as if this could somehow reveal the real words carved on the grave. Surely she has made a mistake.

_Here lies one who found freedom in the sky..._

Yesterday's flowers wilt forlornly, and she snatches them away. Balthier liked beautiful things. He would not want to see the browning edges of petals in decay. He would like fresh ones, dewy damp and boldly coloured, but Fran has already dropped her flowers into the dirt. She had dropped them when she first arrived.

They call her lady, when in reality she is but a girl by the standards of the viera. She is barely into her first lifetime, with many more years to come. Humes have such short spans in comparison. Their lives are fleeting. So hurried are their words, their gestures, their passions. Balthier is much the same, for all that he pretends to lean comfortably against a wall and watch as others hurry through life. Yes, Balthier _was _much the same.

This is too much for Fran. She who never cries when facing terrible injury, weeps. She feels as if her world has ended. So much sorrow! There is a terrible ache in her chest that becomes hollower with each raking sob. But how to fill this void?

This is how she wakes, her face pressed into the damp pillow, clinging onto it like a lifeline.

Gradually, awareness takes hold of her. She has never dreamed so vividly before. She is not even sure whether she is awake or asleep.

Still, she has to see.

Casting the pillow unceremoniously aside, Fran swings her legs over the bed and hurries from her quarters. Balthier's is not far from hers, because she can often hear him pacing late at night. Tonight is not such a night, for when Fran slides the door open, he is fast asleep.

She had only meant to look, a confirmation of her companion's wellbeing and nothing more, yet she finds herself drawn across the room as if by some unseen force. Soon, she is sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Whilst Balthier's daytime demeanor may be elegant and put-together, this man's legs and arms are flung all across the bed. The rumpled bedsheets are inconsequential to providing warmth, bunched up in a corner of the room along with his shirt.

His face is open and relaxed in sleep, rather than the odd mixture of guardedness and flippancy that often crosses his features. Fran wonders how long it will be until the first lines appear on his forehead, and the creases around the eyes. How long will it be until he sleeps like this forever? The ugly thoughts clamour, and she feels the same measure of sadness she did in her dream. The thought of being alone once again...

Balthier stirs.

"Mm, Fran?" he murmurs.

Fran finds herself unable to speak, but she is silent often enough that Balthier does not take it amiss. Or perhaps he is only talking in his sleep.

An arm reaches out and pulls her down. Fran cannot bring herself to resist, not after the awful dream. She lies curled into Balthier's side, her head resting on his collarbone, comforted by the surprisingly firm arm around her shoulders.

As the hours flow by, she forgets about the future and simply thinks of how nice it is to be here, lying together like this. She is lulled to sleep by his scent and his warmth, and this time dreams of linen shirts, and laughter, and the sky.


	7. Act One

**A/N - I guess the last chapter wasn't very well received. I hope this one brings more enjoyment! It's a bit silly...**

_Act One_

They are all sitting together, relaxing in the raucous surrounds of the lively tavern. Perhaps relaxing is not the best word, for they are also plotting their course on the next stage of their journey, hair still gritty from sandstorms endured. Nevertheless, Balthier has bought them all a round of drinks, and even the stern countenance of the Captain is somewhat less hard-edged.

"I suggest," says Balthier, "that we skirt around the border here and enter from the west." He traces the route with his finger and stabs their destination triumphantly.

Ashe clears her throat. "Always in favour of creeping about, aren't you Balthier?" she notes.

Balthier folds his arms. "Not creeping m'dear. _Stealth_."

Ashe laughs, and Balthier's eyebrow twitches ever so slightly upwards. He can barely see for the fog of superiority coming from the Princess. '_How annoying.'_ Thankfully, Vaan dispels the tension by attempting to switch Fran's ale with his own, Balthier-imposed fruit juice.

"Vaan," warns Balthier, "Never steal a lady's drink, especially when she could kill you with her bare hands."

Vaan backs away guiltily. "But she's not even here."

"True enough, but it is common courtesy for a gentleman to mind a lady's drink when she is engaged elsewhere. Since Basch is halfway to a spectacular headache come morning and you...being so endearingly Vaan-like and boyish, the responsibility falls to me," Balthier explains.

"You say so much, and yet so little," Ashe says cuttingly.

Balthier would normally have replied to this little jibe, likely in the most infernally loquacious manner possible, but he is momentarily distracted by Fran's reappearance. She is standing by the noticeboard, presumably scanning the flyers for good marks, but she has taken off her helmet. So rarely does Balthier see her without it that he stares a good few seconds too long.

"Balthier...?" calls Vaan, snapping his fingers in the sky pirate's face.

Penelo nudges Vaan. "Don't be rude. You can't do that!"

Balthier comes to his senses. He always seems to lose his wits at the sight of Fran. It happens more and more frequently these days when it should be the other way around. This disturbs him, because his profession relies heavily on the possession of wits. But just the sight of that flowing, cascading hair...

A harsh voice can be heard from the bar. "Oi Rardas, check 'er out!"

"Nice," comes the rough reply. "Wonder if she's interested...?"

Balthier's tilts his head towards the pair. He wonders whether these men are simply dreaming, or planning on taking action. Either way, he has completely lost the thread of his own conversation and might as well have come to the tavern on his own.

The other man makes his choice. "Ey love! Git over 'ere and share a drink wit' us!" He calls out.

Balthier chuckles to himself. Next will come the cool but polite refusal, and the downing of a sorrowful drink or three. He feels a little angry as well, because he is the only one who can call Fran 'love'.

"Not today," Fran says firmly, turning back to the board.

Then Balthier hears the scraping of chairs. Not good. The bloody idiots are standing up, yes, they are heading over to Fran. Idiots. She'll floor them if they come too close.

"C'mon sweetheart," Rardas cajoles. "Just a coupla drinks, then after..."

"I said no."

The other man appears to get angry. "YER'LL DO AS YER TOLD!" he roars, and in an instant, Balthier has crossed the room.

"The lady said no, so clear off," he says forcefully.

The drunk shakes his head. "Nah. If me an' my mate 'ere see a single woman standin' 'round, then we best give 'er somethin' fun to do." The pair leer at the uncomfortable viera.

"I am not single," says Fran suddenly.

"Oh?" drawl the men, and almost Balthier as well.

Fran slips her arm around Balthier's and leans into him, and instantly they have the appearance of a couple. He is suddenly very aware of their proximity, but maintains his decorum admirably. After all, the leading man is, if anything, a great actor.

"Shall I spirit you away from these unseemly fellows?" Balthier asks, murmuring intimately into Fran's ear.

"Quickly," advises Fran.

He steers them both back to their other companions, and if the others wonder why they are so entwined, they make no comment. The two drunks have still not returned to their stools. They stare wistfully after the lady on his arm, making Balthier feel mightily pleased with himself.

"Still they watch," comments Fran, looking disgusted.

"Well then, it seems as though we must act a little longer," he replies, not at all adverse to the idea.

He gently takes her by the waist, waiting to see what she would do. Fran places a tentative arm across his shoulder, relaxing as she does so. He looks into her eyes, seeing frustration, amusement and...pleasure? Funny thing, the exact same things he is feeling. This will be by far the easiest acting job for the leading man to date.


	8. The Other Bullseye

**A/N - Happy Halloween all!**

_The Other Bullseye_

"It is all in the focus, Balthier," Fran explains as she lines up her next shot.

The two have set up a makeshift archery range some way away from the grounded _Strahl_, and while Balthier has peppered the target with the bullets of almost-bullseyes, Fran has left a dozen or so arrows in the exact centre.

"Bows. guns, the two surely cannot be judged against one another," says Balthier, pride wounded somewhat.

By way of reply, Fran plucks the gun from his hand and leaves a small, gaping hole in...the bullseye. Balthier throws up his hands, conceding defeat.

"No one is quite like you Fran," he admits. And there isn't. Standing there, a bow in one hand and a gun in the other, she looks like a warrior woman whose measured, ruby gaze could see right into a man's soul. Balthier squirms a little at the thought. However, the side-effects of her proximity are outweighed by her incredible loveliness and the promise of a rare, sweet smile.

"Humes are too easily given to their passions," Fran comments. "Accuracy lies in complete detachment from everything but the arrow and the target."

"Is that so?" Balthier murmurs, mostly to himself.

"It is your turn to shoot," Fran reminds him. Balthier gives a start, then lines up his target with a marksman's precision. "That is right Balthier. Think of nothing but the shot," Fran reminds him.

It misses.

"It was the better shot, however it still did not score a perfect hit," says Fran.

"And this is because I am not emotionally detached enough?" Balthier asks, a smile playing on his lips.

"Yes. Perhaps it is only the viera who are capable of this. As I said, Humes are all too easily distracted by their emotions," Fran replies. She lines up her bow to make her next, perfect shot.

"Fran," Balthier says suddenly.

"Yes?" she responds, lowering the bow at the strange urgency in his tone.

But he doesn't elaborate, or perhaps he does.

One arm firmly around her waist, the other gently supporting her neck, he closes the distance between them and meets her lips. At first, Fran stands still, arms frozen by her sides and thinking only that this only confirms her words from earlier, but he is running his hands all through her hair and her knees are melting and none of that matters anymore. She relaxes, one of her nails catching a loose thread on Balthier's shirt as her hands roam as freely as his.

They break off, breathless. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Balthier looks like he would very much like to kiss her again, and Fran is transfixed by the intensity in his eyes. Then, Balthier seems to collect himself, or give himself a mental shake, and a familiar smirk is crossing his face.

"Hit the bullseye after that and you will truly be as detached as stone," he drawls. Yet behind that throwaway line lies that same intensity from before, as if this is more than a case of win or lose.

She misses the target. Completely.


	9. Poetry

**A/N **- **Exams are over:)**

_Poetry_

Balthier is tired. He is not sure whether his lamp is flickering or he keeps falling asleep in snatches, waking up just before his head hits the desk. Either way, this makes it difficult for him to see the heavily annotated document before him, barely readable through ink-stained fingerprints and smudges of frustration.

Perhaps he should go to sleep. After all, he will need to be in top piloting form tomorrow. _Ah. but tomorrow may be too late,_ he thinks to himself. Galvanized, he puts pen to paper once again and makes a few illegible scribbles. It is a rough draft of course, so there is no need to employ the elegant Archadian whorls and curlicues that hint at his aristocratic upbringing. In fact, there is rarely any need for it, except that it is important for this piece to be well-received.

Scowling, he remembers the events of the day, a day that began in the jungle and led to a small and hidden village named Eruyt...

"_Be cautious. The wood is jealous of the humes who have taken you..."_

_Balthier hears Jote's words to Fran despite his distance. It was likely that the viera had deliberately pitched her voice for hume listeners, for all the good that it would do. Long ago, Fran had cut herself from the Wood, and now its desires were as nothing to her. Or so she often said. Jote seems to read something in the sudden stillness of his partner, and Balthier knows at once that Fran is taken aback, and is now listening – truly listening._

_Jote lowers her voice so the humes can no longer hear. She does not know that Balthier has sharp eyesight, and possesses the skill to read lips. _

"_What I mean to say is, the_ hume_ who has taken you. You know the one," she says quietly._

_Of course Fran knows the one._

"_I have never met this pirate before, and yet, seeing you with him...I am no fool, sister," Jote continues._

"_Nor am I. My own counsel I keep," Fran says, a little too quickly. Balthier gauges this as defensiveness, though why he is sensing it in someone so calm and self-possessed, he does not know._

_Fran walks away from the encounter as tense as a taut bowstring, every movement calculated for the appearance of normality, yet somehow lacking the natural grace that usually defined her._

"_How old are you again?" The boy, Vaan, how he could have hit him in that moment! Yet, conversely, the thoughtless question served to dispel the building tension Balthier could see in Fran's knotted shoulders. Yes, hiding behind vanity and wounded pride, the viera was...highly amused._

Since then, Balthier has been thinking. Thoughts of the desperate quest of their party have been shoved inconsequentially to the back of his mind, and in the moment that extreme fatigue overbalanced reason he decided to write his leading lady a poem. In a more lucid moments, Balthier would know perfectly well that Fran does not appreciate the empty, flowery rhetoric she believes poetry to be, but this is not one of those moments.

There is a soft knock on the door. It's Fran.

"You are not asleep."

Balthier is not sure whether this is a statement or question, so he just shakes his head.

"You worry over something."

Fran comes to sit on the edge of the desk. "Will you tell me?" she asks, and he hears the faint note of concern in her voice.

"Fran. She spoke of a hume who had taken you away...but I think you are the one who has taken me..." Balthier hears himself saying.

There is a silence.

"You are tired, Balthier. You must sleep," she says haltingly.

"Will you return to the woods as I sleep?" he asks, irreverent poetry quite forgotten.

Balthier allows himself to be guided to his bed. He is surprised when Fran lies down beside him.

"My sister...she had the truth of it. And a sky pirate does not relinquish that which he has stolen so easily," she murmurs in his ear.

Balthier does not answer. He has fallen asleep, his arm around her shoulders.


	10. Celebration

**A/N - It _has_ been awhile, I know...:)**

_Celebration_

No one expects them to come, not really, but doing the unexpected has sort of become their trademark.

So they will.

The invitation is a lovely, delicate little thing with gold-leaf edging and curlicued script. The envelope it comes in is brown, battered and marked with the fingerprints of each person who has passed it on. Balthier is most likely expecting an arrest warrant, and Fran a request to hunt a mark, so in the end it is a pleasant surprise to be invited to Queen Ashelia's coronation ball.

They have received the missive quite late, and so it seems that in no time at all they land the ship and make their way to the palace. Fran feels a little like they hardly belong on these once restless streets, where excitement lights the faces of the cityfolk instead of the desperate question, '_will we survive?'_

"It feels strange to be back on Dalmascan soil," Balthier remarks, smoothly adjusting his collar as he does so.

"Stranger still that we can name it so," Fran replies, with a note of grimness she lets escape.

"Fran," Balthier says, turning to her, "That is behind us. Tonight I want you to have fun. Surely you've earned that?"

Fran is reluctant to admit that she enjoys the feel of the black silk dress floating around her, and the wind in her coiled and bejeweled hair. Such pleasure in the coldness of hume treasures should not come so readily for one who once braided her hair with flowers.

And she shouldn't cast so many greedy glances at Balthier, dressed so unashamedly pirate-like that only his friendship with the Crown will save him from arrest. Her determination not to look only serves to stop her seeing that he has the same dilemma, yet lacks her resolve not to look.

"Perhaps it would be wise to enjoy, for the sake of our friend," she concedes. Balthier grins, and offers her his elbow.

"Would now be the time to make our grand entrance m'dear?" he asks, the grin turning into a smirk.

Fran stops walking. "Please explain, Balthier. I'm sure you've just said something foolish."

Balthier holds up his hands. "It is no matter. Custom requires that we are announced as we enter, then pay our respects to the hosts. I was planning on slipping through a window or some such so we can avoid such trivialities," he explains.

"Wise," Fran says in relief. She did not come here to be stared at.

Balthier points out a side door to the palace hanging slightly ajar. They have studied the floor plan in the past for certain...reconnaissance purposes, and know that from there they would simply need to take a side passage, a flight of stairs and then the service corridor to slip into the ballroom unseen.

As always however, what they plan and what actually happens is often far off the mark.

"Guys! Hey guys!" a voice calls. Balthier's left eyebrow twitches upward. "Hey Penelo, I think it's Fran and Balthier!" The right eyebrow joins it, before settling down into a scowl.

"Vaan," he greets in a strained voice. "Penelo," he continues, his tone softening a little. "Have you been keeping yourselves well?"

Vaan nods eagerly, and Penelo gives him a little embarrassed nudge.

"It certainly has been awhile," Fran says, feeling as though she should contribute somewhat. A part of her admits that she has missed these two young ones. There is no shame in this.

"So, um, where are you guys going? You know the ballroom is this way, don't you?" asks Vaan. Fran sees a tiny crease appear on Balthier's forehead.

"In actual fact, we were hoping to-"

"C'mon! Hey look everyone! It's Fran and Balthier!" Vaan yells. Two guards stationed by the entrance look curious. They have certainly heard the rumours about the mismatched sky pirates, and their role in the saving of Dalmasca. Fran's ears twitch with all the attention they are attracting. Suddenly, Balthier's idea of slipping in unseen feels much less paranoid and far more agreeable.

She notes that Balthier is looking around for exit locations. She notes that she has already located three, all of which require a rather sizeable distraction. It seems a little extreme, but perhaps she can pretend to be overcome by mist, or perhaps-

Then, suddenly, Balthier is smiling and taking her hand. "I suppose we've been through worse," he murmurs.

"All options considered, this is the one which will cause the least embarrassment," Fran replies.

"And the most enjoyment," Balthier adds, stroking her hand with his thumb.

They are at standing in front of the great doors. The master of ceremonies is reading out their names, but Fran can barely hear, or care.


	11. Worry

**A/N** - _My apologies for the delay. Christmas is a busy time of year!_

_Worry_

The man standing in front of Balthier wants very much to shoot him right now, but now he is unsure. His boss told him the sky pirate on the face of countless wanted posters offering countless gil for his head was lower than dirt. An lewd, crude scumbag whose exploits were successful mainly due to luck and a total disregard for human life. Once cornered, such a sniveling man should cower and plead for his life.

So why is he casually leaning against the wall?

Balthier is more ill at ease than his outward appearance suggests. After all, a man is pointing a gun at his face. No, not a man, a boy. He has never had someone so young come after him. A bounty hunter would aim for his heart, not his head. He grimaces inwardly. B'Gamnan would aim for his stomach and throw him into the ocean. Lovely seeq, that B'Gamnan.

So now, to return to the threat of imminent death. Balthier supposes he ought to learn this would be killer's intentions.

"I take it," he begins, "that you intend to shoot me?

The boy's aim spasms violently. "Y-yes!"

Balthier winces. Voice still not broken. These street rats were getting younger and younger. "Well then, I'm afraid I cannot allow that."

The boy makes a strangled sound. Balthier raises an eyebrow. Tattered, patched and re-patched shirt [a crime against all shirts, surely!], dirty face, no shoes...this boy was probably hired by some rich aristocrat who feared Balthier would next relieve them of their possessions. He was probably promised a cut of the reward. And yet, Balthier is not moved to pity. He is not a charitable man when it comes to someone pointing a gun in his face, however naïve and inept they may be.

Still seemingly lounging against the wall, Balthier stares the boy down. "If you remain here, there will be a shot fired today, but I cannot guarantee that it will not be at you." Hopefully, the lad hears the thread of steel enter his voice.

"N-no! I have to do this!" the boy all but shrieks. Damn stubborn lad!

Suddenly, a new voice enters the room. "Balthier, you have gotten into difficulties again," says Fran, surveying the scene.

"Oh...oh dear," says Balthier, casting an anxious look at the boy.

"What? W-what is it?" the boy splutters.

"You had better go. _Fran_ is here!" he stage whispers. The boy looks apprehensive. "What have you heard from your master about her?" Balthier continues.

"Well, I've heard a few things..." the boy says.

"All true."

"Get out while you still can," Fran adds, dangerously. Balthier is glad she is content to play along. The boy hovers for a moment, then bolts out of the door.

"Admit it Balthier. You could have talked your way out of that one without involving me," Fran says, clearly irritated.

"Ah yes, but it would not have been as fun," explains Balthier, smirking. Fran makes a noncommittal noise. "Oh Fran, I was in deathsome peril of being peppered with bullets! Can't you say in the least that you were concerned for my wellbeing?" Balthier asks, somehow pulling off an earnest expression.

Fran doesn't quite look him in the eye. "I always am." She touches his shoulder. "I always am." And suddenly this conversation is about something else entirely.


	12. Mortal

**A/N - **At last! An update! May you enjoy:)

_Mortal_

Fran tightens her grip on Balthier's slippery palm. It is cold, colder than she has ever been before, and the icy wind is tearing the warmth from her skin. She can normally cast a warming spell at the snap of her fingers, but today she is far too weak. They both are.

She can only remember the the dimmest of sounds from the crash. It was sudden, violent and shocking. To fall from the sky... Fran felt a deep hollowness in her stomach, driving ever upward even as they descended. Then, the sound of the Strahl folding in on itself, twisted and battered in a shriek of crumpling metal, and then...

Silence.

Fran thinks she can hear snatches of Balthier's murmurings, but he should be conserving his strength. In all this time, he has barely glanced at his beloved ship. Perhaps he cannot bear to assess the damage just yet. His focus seems wholly centered on her.

Slowly, she loosens her fingers. They should be looking for shelter, for Nono, for something other than lying dazed in the snow. It occurs to her that Balthier is not lying down. No, he is kneeling beside her, his murmurings growing more urgent.

"_Fran...listen to me!"_

But she cannot bring herself to speak. It is as if the cold has seeped into her and she is paralysed. At some point, she feels his hand levering her into a sitting position. She goes unresisting, noting that her limbs are oddly slack. It is as if the body is no longer hers, and she is observing it from the perspective of some scientist. Something is wrong about that, but she cannot quite figure out what.

"_Fran! Fran!"_

She makes a great effort, forcing the words out and drawing more cold, cold air into her lungs. _"I am here."_

The arms around her sag with relief. _"Having a little snooze in the snow were we, Fran?" _asks Balthier drolly.

"_I was tired,"_ she manages, feeling strangely weightless and warm. Oh yes, she has been lifted off the ground, and wrapped in some sort of white shirt. It smells of coffee and oil and a sort of musk that is as familiar to her as the engine room of the Strahl.

As warmth returns to her, so to does awareness. _"The ship, she has crashed,"_ she says, sounding the words out for herself.

"Mmm. Just over this rise if Nono's sense of direction holds true," Balthier replies. His words are starting to sound more clear, and she takes that as a good sign.

"You have given me your shirt," are her next words,

"Try not to crease it, mind you."

True to Balthier's word, they come upon the broken ship after they crest a snowy hill. Fran gives a gasp of dismay, echoed physically by Balthier's wince.

As he gently lowers her to the galley floor [incidentally, the only undamaged part of the ship], Fran notices that his arms are shaking. No, not shaking, trembling.

"We can repair the ship, you and I," Fran assures him.

"I do not care about the ship," Balthier says roughly, looking at her. She catches her breath.

Because they had always assumed that he, the Hume, would be the first to go. Never had they considered this other possibility. This unwelcome possibility.

_"Oh Fran..._" Balthier sighs.


	13. A Toast in the Sky

**A/N - **After a whole day spent playing FFXII, this one practically wrote itself. I love holidays...so productive:P

_A Toast in the Sky_

Long has Fran been curious of the flying metalmachines that the humes encase themselves in, but she has no need of hastening her travels in this way. She is not like them, they who rush from crib to cane. She could spend five years wandering the great westersands and hardly make an impression on the hourglass of her life. She has all the time in the world.

And yet, she is no longer viera. A true follower of the green Word would never have felt the tug of curiosity, drawing her away from the wood and into the world. This is why she chooses to finally enter the Aerodrome, feeling her heels clicking over the metal floor in her wake.

There is some sort of desk in the front room, and from experience Fran knows that this is the point at which humes generally conduct business. She feels in her bag for the gil she knows is rattling around somewhere. Humes trade on cold metal, not the simple bartering of goods upon which the viera depend.

"Yes?" asks a bored clerk, not bothering to look up.

"I wish to purchase transportation on a..skyship," Fran replies. Her accent is exotic enough to cause the clerk to look up, and his mouth hangs open in amazement. Fran simply drums her nails on the desk until he returns to some semblance of normality.

"Ah. Aha. Yes, well then. Where do you want to go?" the clerk finally splutters.

Fran glances at the destination board, picking one at random. "Nalbina."

"Umm. Er. Okay, I have a flight departing in ten minutes. The next one is in two hours," the clerk informs her.

"Yes," she says.

"Yes...w-what?" He is confused by her response.

"The next flight. Though I believe by now it is due for departure in _eight minutes_," Fran says meaningfully.

The next three minutes is spent waiting for the increasingly flustered clerk to write a bill of sale and find her ticket, which he finally does. He watches her leave, looking as if he has lost something, some vital chance.

Fran cannot help herself. She stands upon the deck and marvels at the feeling of being on top of the world. Even after the rest of the passengers retire below deck, she remains outside. The clouds are so close if she could just reach out...

Of course, that is when she hears _that_ sound.

It is not quite a grunt, more of a nondescript _mmph. _And it appears to be coming out of a coil of rope on the main deck. _Mmph._

Again.

Tearing herself away from her spot, Fran ventures over to the rope and gives it an experimental kick.

"Excuse me, but that is certainly not something one would call polite," the rope says belligerently.

"Who are you hiding from?" is Fran's reply.

"Ah, a lady," says the rope, clearing its throat. A hume male removes himself from the coils, adjusting his cuffs as he does so. He kisses her hand. "Enchanted," he murmurs. He does not seem to be fazed in the least that the hand belongs to a viera. Fran is ill at ease, especially after considering his previous accommodations.

This man, who introduces himself as Balthier, is supposedly a 'sky merchant' on the way to pick up his 'skyship' after it was in need of considerable repairs. Fran listens for awhile before cutting him off.

"You lie as you breathe," she hisses.

This Balthier is silenced. For a moment at least. "_Oh?_"

Fran stares him down. "I have known enough of your kind to know when lies are spoken."

"And by _my kind_, evidently, you are not merely speaking of Humes, but rather, Humes of the male variety?" Balther asks. "Shall I venture a guess? Others in the past have spoken of wondrous things in order to capture your interest, when indeed you are the most wondrous thing they had ever hoped to capture?"

Fran refuses to relax. "They wished to bed me, would be the less polite way of it," she says shortly. She feels uncomfortable just saying it, but it is true. Hume males seem to find her appearance attractive, and her disposition of no matter.

"The lady does not mince her words," Balthier muses.

"You are the same sort of man, easily given to lies. For what business does a _sky merchant_ have hiding aboard an airship?" Fran challenges.

Balthier makes an expansive gesture. "Come, will you join me in the saloon? Allow me to explain myself?"

"I will not."

"Do you not feel the cold?" he asks. The deck is quite windy at this point, and the clouds they pass through leave traces of precipitation on their skin.

From the corner of her eye, Fran spots the tiniest crease of concern on Balthier's face. She folds her arms and says nothing. After awhile, she hears a sigh, and then retreating footsteps. She wonders if he has given up already. He did not seem the accepting type.

Oh.

He has left his jacket lying on the deck. Fran tosses her head in annoyance, after all, she is freezing. Curse the man! She will not wear his jacket like a symbol of ownership. However...this does not solve the matter of her discomfort. It really is quite cold.

Fran makes a compromise. She will go into the saloon and meet with this man, but she will not wear the jacket. She will shove it back into his waiting arms, especially if he is expecting a kiss of gratitude.

That settled, she ventures below decks and into the so-called saloon, which she was unaware skyships had. He is waiting for her there, although Fran can see that he has not waited to order himself a drink. A bottle of fine Bhujerban Sky Wine rests on the counter, and two glasses.

"Ah," he says, clearly delighted, "You've come to join me?"

"I will not drink," Fran says firmly, seating herself next to him. "Even though you had enough confidence I would come that you asked for two glasses."

Balthier leans languidly on his chair. "Let us just say that it was perception. If your are a viera curious enough to have left the Wood, then you would be curious enough to hear a good story."

"Mmph."

Balthier pours the wine anyway. "Well, to begin, sky merchant is perhaps not the best label for my profession." He waits for a response.

"It is only what I expected," says Fran, pushing away the proffered glass.

"You see, I relieve others of their goods and transfer them to prospective buyers," he explains.

Fran is not fooled for a moment. "You are a sky pirate, are you not?"

Balthier blanches. "Ah. The lady is perceptive," he comments. "A toast to perception!"

Fran reluctantly picks up the glass and taps it against the pirate's own. "And why is a sky pirate on board a skyship when, by rights, he should have his own vessel?" she asks.

"There is, how shall I put this, a small bounty on my head at present, which forces me to consider all manners of subterfuge in order to remain a free man," Balthier explains. He takes a sip of wine. "Blackberries and pepper," he murmurs.

"Such as disguising oneself within the coils of a rope?" presses Fran, head tilted sideways. She studies him carefully, trying to recognise whether she has seen his face on a wanted poster somewhere. When she thinks about it, he looks ever so slightly familiar.

"There is a certain bounty hunter, B'Gamnan, who is most persistent. I had cause to abandon my ship in Nalbina in order to evade him and his...entourage. My reasons for returning now are, obviously, to collect my airship and continue on my merry way," Balthier continues.

"Your story is quite...unbelievable," says Fran finally. "Although, one of the more interesting ones of late."

Balthier nods, topping up her glass and then his. Fran cannot even remember drinking the wine. She puts down her glass firmly, making a decision.

"I should like to see this airship of yours, sky pirate," she says. Balthier looks delighted.

"And see it you shall, my lady," he replies immediately. "A toast, to new ventures!"

This time, Fran merely takes a small sip, although, she admits grudgingly, the wine tastes delicious.

"There is one thing which troubles me. Your accent, I find it unplaceable," she says, once again curious.

Balthier shrugs. "Archadian."

Fran looks up quickly. Archadian?

Balthier quickly interprets her expression. "I have left my homeland, as you have left yours. We are both wanderers, you and I. Wanderers without a home."

This seems especially poignant to Fran, having essentially cut herself off from the Wood. Strangely, she feels a bond to this man. Perhaps it is the wine to blame, or perhaps not.

"Fran," she says suddenly.

"Your pardon?"

"My name. You cannot continue calling me _my lady_, for I am certainly not your lady," Fran adds.

Balthier smirks. "Certainly not. However, the leading man and the leading lady always end up together, do they not?"

Fran shakes her head. "That may be so, but I am merely a guest star in this pirate play of yours. I have yet to see the ship."

"And see it you shall!" Balthier promises, brightening. "But first I must plan how to reclaim it from B'Gamnan. He keeps a tight watch over the _Strahl_."

Fran waits a few moments before responding. "You failed to tell me of this...complication, Balthier," she says calmly.

Balthier grins wolfishly. "Fran, this is all part of the challenge, is it not?"

Fran's ear twitches in agitation. She dislikes being lied to, yet somehow she feels as though she can trust this man. Somehow this partnership feels right.

And somehow, it feels like she is wandering no more.


	14. Little Things

**A/N - **Just a short, little introspective chapter based on something cute that happened in my game.

_Little Things_

Penelo knows that she never really had much of a chance, it's just that...when she had his handkerchief, it was almost like...

"Almost like what?" she asks herself quietly.

She sighs. She is a fair-minded girl, and they had been partners well before she came on the scene. If Balthier and Fran took such happiness in one another's company, then who was she to come between them?

Well of course, she still isn't entirely sure if they are _together_. She and Vaan sometimes speculate about the exact nature of their relationship, but neither of them has ever actually seen them kiss [which Vaan assures her is the safest way to tell].

One time, she was passing Fran's cabin on her way to the bathroom, and saw Balthier in there brushing her hair. They weren't speaking or anything, but instead of awkward it felt entirely natural. Penelo felt like she shouldn't really be looking, so she quickly moved on, not that the two would have noticed.

Another time Vaan claimed that Fran and Balthier were holding hands on the bridge, but Penelo told him not to be an idiot. Obviously, they would be concentrating on flying the ship on the bridge. Penelo wasn't going to give much credence to a person who took over an hour to find her [in her own cabin] on a relatively small airship anyway.

Even so, Penelo knows that she will never be more than a friend to Balthier. There is no need for evidence, because all the proof she needs is in the little things, the little words and actions and expressions that are often easily missed.

Such as the way that, in the heat of battle, they will cast a healing spell at each other at exactly the same time. The way Balthier chatters away at some length about some strategy he has, and Fran sums him up in three words.

Or the way one of them seems diminished without the other.

Penelo tries to picture her and Vaan like that, but it doesn't quite work. She'll tease him and then they'll argue and then they'll be fine again somehow but Vaan will do something stupid but Penelo will eventually forgive him because they've known each other all their lives and they're friends, and that's what friends do, right?

Take today for example. Vaan swore he saw Fran leaving the captain's cabin early in the morning wearing Balthier's bathrobe, but obviously he doesn't know what he's talking about. There aren't any baths on the Strahl, so why would Bathier have a bathrobe onboard?

Once again, Vaan isn't making any sense, and she won't let him get away with it.


	15. Valentides

**A/N - **Happy Valentines day all! Here is my present...!

_Valentide_

She has never heard of this particular holiday before, not until she meets Balthier. He calls it _Valentides_, or something similar, a tradition which supposedly began in Old Valendian times, yet her sisters of the Wood knew naught of it.

This is a gift giving day of flowers and chocolates, and oversized moogle plushies. Or at the very least, these are the things which are delivered at various times during the day and appear collectively in Balthier's study. Fran intercepted one such delivery which contained not only a candy heart, but also a rather saucy poem.

Yes, the hume she travels with has something of a reputation.

Fran admits that, although young, this one has pleasing attributes that females would find attractive, and a certain, aristocratic air that gives the impression of maturity. If that were all, then she would not find herself so irritated by the gifts and the love notes, but there is much more to Balthier and she is very irritated indeed.

"Another delivery," she says, all but throwing the box onto the desk. She and Balthier both wince at the sharp crack of breaking glass it makes on landing.

"Easy there Fran," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"How is it," Fran ventures, "that you are so easily found on this day?"

"I take it you are referencing the rather considerable bounty on my head?" Balthier responds nonchalantly.

Fran gives him a look, which others will describe as expressionless, but only Balthier can successfully interpret as withering.

"Oh Fran! Isn't this fun?" he exclaims, stretching his arm out to her. Said viera makes a disgusted noise.

"Your vanity risks the ship, Nono and myself," she points out, leaning against the doorframe.

"Every day of our lives is a risk," Balthier replies. He sounds distracted, counting out his gifts most likely.

Fran feels her ire raised. "You do not think to screen these packages?"

"Oh, Nono takes care of it," he says, shrugging in a distinctly non-aristocratic way.

"Such a foolish hume you are!" Fran all but hisses. She storms from the room, each click of her heel a testament to her anger.

Suddenly, the ship feels too small for the both of them, so cloying and close-quartered. She climbs to the skydeck, relishing the feeling of open air around her, but this too is short-lived. Someone has set it up with a table, chairs and flowers. Evidently a certain sky pirate had plans to 'woo' a lady friend this evening, one of his precious Valentides. She resists the urge to kick the table down and retreats to her cabin.

She does not notice the box at first, so intent is she on finding a bag in which to pack all of her things. It is small, wrapped in gold paper and rests on top of a folded note. Curious, she gives the gift an experimental prod and unfolds the note.

_Dear Fran, my leading lady,_

_Won't you join me for dinner on the skydeck this evening? Nono is cooking up a storm in the kitchen, so we can only hope that he uses cooking oil and not the engine variety [in exchange for my Valentides gifts, he had better]. Well, that is not strictly the truth, I am keeping yours. Thank-you for the chocolates, though you must have had quite a time making them in the shape of the Strahl!_

_Come any time, and I will be waiting,_

_Balthier_

The bag remains empty on the floor, and Fran's possessions unpacked. Instead of out the door and out of the leading man's story, she once again climbs the stairs to the skydeck. She isn't even sure whether she would have left in the first place, for there is something magnetic about this hume which always prevents her. Some sort of sweetness kept just for her beneath the veneer of charming, reckless, uncaring pirate.

For Valentides day, Balthier has given her a ring.


	16. Fight

**A/N - **Hi everyone! I was just thinking that after I wrote the first theme, I never expected it to take off like this! As long as I can think of new ideas, I will keep on going. I start uni next week but I will try my best not to be too long between updates. Now...enjoy!

* * *

_Fight_

By now, Balthier is well aware that once a year, Fran quietly disappears for a week and returns as if nothing has happened. He knows better than to ask of course, in the same way that he knows better than to ask her to take off her heels and see if he is actually taller than her without them. Viera do as they do and remain as mysterious and beguiling as ever.

Lounging in the Sandsea with Vaan and Penelo, Balthier wonders idly how they managed to get him to agree to their company. Perhaps he was already there when they came, and invited themselves over. Yes, this seems a reasonable assumption, given the depleted level of the liquid in the bottle he rolls around the table.

"It's so weird seeing him without Fran," Vaan comments.

"Vaan, don't talk about him as if he's not here!" hisses Penelo.

"Quite right Vaan. Your sweetheart has the right idea," Balthier says, knowing this will sidetrack the adolescent pair for awhile, at least until their blushes disappear.

He gives his mind back to the problem at hand, being the location to which Fran removes herself. Could it be some sort of viera ritual? Does she return to the Wood's embrace, or the embrace of another man? Balthier does not like the sound of that. He clenches his jaw. He tells Fran everything, so why can she not tell him this?

"Balthier?" The hesitant voice brings him back to himself. It is the voice of Penelo, all sweetness and light. Well, as sweet as can be for one who has just pummeled Vaan within an inch of his life. "Um, well, Vaan and I were wondering where Fran is?"

"Yeah, did you have a fight?" Vaan adds, and Penelo gives him a look which clearly indicates that she wants very much to start one with him.

Balthier thinks for a moment. "No. Although we do fight from time to time, this was not one of those times."

"Huh? What do you fight about?" Vaan asks nosily. It is interesting to note that Penelo does not stop him.

"Oh, the usual. The ship repairs, marks, targets..." He grins wickedly. "Who makes up the next excuse to avoid you two, the amount I spend on my shirts, her not keeping to her side of the bed-"

"Now you're just faking us out," Vaan decides.

Balthier pours himself another glass. "Of course, my very young apprentice." He tunes out Vaan's bristling response. It is now the seventh day of Fran's absence, so he supposes that he can ask Fran what she's been up to when she returns later today.

At some point during the day, Penelo and Vaan leave him. Off to cause mischief no doubt. He wonders when he will stop seeing them as orphans. Fran would say...

Fran.

Balthier grimaces. He misses her, naturally. But he is also a little annoyed about her secret. There he goes again, thinking about it. Thinking about her. He looks out of the tavern window, noting the late afternoon sun. Any moment now, Fran could walk in the door. Any moment now...

A light touch of nails running up his back brings a smile to his face. The lady has returned.

"Couldn't keep yourself away, could you my dear?" he says languidly.

"This Hume intrigues me. He does not smell of the Land."

Too late, Balthier realises that it is not Fran. He should have known from the beginning of course, as Fran does not show much in the way of affection in public. Now he is feeling irritable, because his hopes have been raised and then dashed down onto the rocks below.

He turns around to confirm it. Yes, this viera is white-eared, dark-haired and favours the desert dress of Nalbina. Fran would never cover her glorious sheen with cheap, nasty hair dye. Fran would never be so crass as to rake her claws across a stranger's back, not unless she wished to kill.

"You're not my viera," he blurts out rudely.

The viera's ears twitch. "Your pardon, Earth-child? Do all Humes own a daughter of the Wood?"

"Not what I meant," Balthier says quickly. He suddenly becomes very aware of how terribly rude he is being. Making an effort to summon his charming persona, he rises to his feet and gives a little bow.

"My pardon indeed," he says contritely. "I was startled. Your grace and beauty reminded me of another of your kind. I was taken aback when you were not her."

The viera seems to accept this. "Humes are easily startled."

Balthier clears his throat, about to inform his guest that he is expecting someone any minute now.

"I am called Fafyn. I am but newly arrived in this place." She pauses, looking up at him through dark, dark eyelashes. "I am in need of a guide."

Balthier raises an eyebrow. This is definitely one of his fantasies, but it's the wrong lady, Fran has told him in the past of viera who fill the void left by the voice of the Wood with drink and carnal pleasures. He remembers making some smart comment about that which Fran actually snickered at. Perhaps this Fafyn is one of them, for most viera are reserved and hold themselves aloof from humes.

It is just the leading man's luck that the viera's next action is to drape herself over him, and that Fran arrives before he is able to politely put an end to her advances. His first words to her are startled and dripping with guilt.

"Fran!"

"Balthier."

"I see you have not been without company," she says, and he can feel the frost in her tone. Balthier untangles himself from the other viera's arms.

"Fran-"

But Fran turns on her heel and stalks away.

And of course, he goes after her.

Balthier can guess enough about his partner that she will return to the Strahl, because although they have spent time enough in Rabanastre, the ship is her home. By the time he reaches it, his elation at her return has mixed with a sick feeling of guilt, for what must she be thinking now?

"I have missed you Fran," is the first thing that pops out of his mouth.

Fran frowns. "I have missed you," she says uncertainly.

Balthier senses that she has softened towards him, so he pushes on. "Where did you go? What I mean to say is, where _do_ you go...when you disappear?"

Fran's eyes flash. "Evidently, any viera will do as my replacement," she says in a low voice.

"You know that's not true," he says quietly. "You know there's only you." His voice cracks at the end of his sentence, and Fran hears.

She sighs deeply. "We do not often fight, you and I."

"I'd like to keep it that way," Balthier says, reaching for her hand. He notices that she is still wearing the ring he gave her, and somehow, this makes him feel better.

"Then, there shall be no secrets between us," Fran says.

"I assure you, I am keeping nothing from you," Balthier insists. He does not like to insist, as this indicates desperation, something hardly worthy of the leading man.

"I know..."

"I go to get away from you," she says finally.

"Good lord Fran, I don't find that insulting in the least," Balthier mumbles, sarcasm evident. He is hurt, crinkling his brow in confusion.

"You sulk," comments Fran.

"Well I thought you liked me," he replies petulantly.

She runs her claws along his spine. "We are partners, are we not?"

Balthier nods faintly, feeling both confused and of the opinion that he is rapidly losing control of the situation.

"Yes," he agrees, stepping away even though he doesn't want to. "But...what sort of partners, hmm?"

"There is a tradition among the viera. We spend time away from our sisters so that we do not take them for granted. It reminds us to cherish the bond between us when we return," explains Fran.

"So," Balthier says as he twines his arm around her shoulders, "You leave me here to drink alone for a week...because you like me?"

By way of response, Fran leans into his shoulder. _"Foolish hume..."_

"Would you like me to remind you not to take me for granted?" he asks. Both of his arms slip down and wrap around her waist, pulling her close. He can feel her skin, so warm through the sleeves of his shirt. Her hair smells of flowers and rain.

Fran says nothing, only sighs.

He gently parts her hair and kisses her cheek, her neck, her shoulder.

She smiles. "We should fight more often."


	17. Voice

**A/N - **This is inspired by the lovely mini-manga I read recently called, 'Sky Regnus,' which is about Fran and Balthier's first meeting. The art is so beautiful and sometimes very cute! There's also another one I want to read called 'Highvision,' so if anyone knows where I can find the English translation, please tell me!

* * *

_Voice_

Fran is a listener. All her life she has been taught her purpose: to listen to the needs of the Wood, and to make them so. A simple inclination of the head suffices for a greeting, or an indication of the affirmative, and often all she must do to order to have her answer is to stand there, and wait.

Her new partner, Balthier, is not a listener. He fills the silences with needless words, telling her this and that about a place he has been to, what the wine was like, and everything else under the sun. It is almost as if he avoids the silence, lest it cause him to think on that which had best be forgotten. His past.

Fran supposes this is his business, and is content to wait until he chooses to discuss it with her. After all, she need only but be patient, as she always has been.

She ponders the man she has thrown her lot in with, on a probationary basis of course. Balthier's word, not hers. There are times when she does not quite know what he is talking about, with a raised eyebrow and a slight upward pull of the lips. She looks for the signs, a tap of the nose, a wink, a tug of the ear, that indicate that there is some hidden meaning in his words, if only she could resonate with him the way she did with the Wood. She is new to this of course, and she will learn.

Sometimes, he will take her completely off guard.

While still relatively new to the hume voices, Fran's sensitive ears cannot tell them apart from each other. They are much too loud, shouting to be heard in the maelstrom of their cluttered cities and towns. For some reason, this sky pirate shears through them all like a hot knife in butter.

Round-vowelled, dripping with insolence, and containing just enough masculine growl to counter the effect of the lace on his collar, Fran finds Balthier's drawling tone...pleasing. He does not shout to be heard, most likely his Archadian insolence again, but expects his words to weave their way through the noise of all the other humes.

She remembers the first time his voice caught her off guard. It was a ridiculously mundane moment in which the two of them were tinkering in the control room. Balthier had simply asked her to pass the screwdriver, and she had felt an accountable warmth in her cheeks and a momentary shortness of breath. A rebellious thought had strayed into her head; that she could suffer the silence of the Wood if it meant she could listen to that voice, as honey-smooth as a prowling coeurl.

Fran shook her head lightly. She was acting like an infatuated young girl, the ones who simpered and fawned and were curiously prone to fainting. Yet no one else but Balthier has this effect on her. He could even say, 'Porridge' and she would feel an illicit thrill run its way up her spine.

She shakes her head lightly. _'He is so young,'_ she thinks to herself. _'He is so young...'_

"Fran...?" comes a now familiar sound from around the corner. Balthier pokes his head into the room. "Ah, I thought I'd find you here. Now's not the time for lazing about you know, we've got a ship to fly."

Fran rises to her feet, one hand resting on her hip. "You've not heard of shore leave, I think."

Balthier puts on a shocked expression. "Good heavens no! The Strahl gets terribly upset if we don't give her enough work to do."

Fran feels her lips curve upward into something most humes would call an enigmatic smile. "So do I, pirate," she says, amused, "So do I."

And she does not even consider for a moment that her voice has the same hypnotizing effect on Balthier.


	18. Leading

**A/N - **_Shall I start with an apology? I am very sorry that I have been out of commission for a very long time. Thank-you for all of the lovely messages and support! I haven't had internet for the past couple of months you see, and I've just started my first degree..._

_Anyway, I now have a cute little chibi Balthier figurine on my desk that berates me when I don't write about him, so I am continuing on with these themes and updating whenever I am able. My exam period ends in about two weeks, but hopefully I will update more often than I have been._

_Please enjoy the new chapter. It's a bit all over the place, but I'll regain the knack of it soon:)  
_

_Once again, thank-you all for your patience and support!_

_~Z_

_

* * *

_

_Leading_

If he wears long sleeves and a vest in the hottest of deserts, then how on earth should anyone expect him to cope well in colder climes? Balthier is used to fireplaces and the warmth of airship engines, and has a special place in his heart for Rabanastre, though he will only ever reluctantly admit this to Fran.

So it is not without considerable grumbling that he finds himself accompanying the following people into the Paramina Rift:

A headstrong, uptight princess with the misguided belief that thigh-high boots quantify as modesty.

A former captain of the royal guard who contributes only monosyllables to conversation.

An orphaned girl so sweet it makes his teeth ache.

An orphaned boy who he can only assume is Penelo's pet, when he isn't asking so many inane questions.

An annexed viera, his long-term partner, and the one who agreed to this insane venture, who he of course had to follow.

And what would a trip to the snowy mountains be without murderous wolves and the undead? It just wouldn't make any sense!

Quite predictably, they haven't brought any coats.

The whole day had been one battle after the next. As the sun, or what was visible of it behind the heavy clouds, made its way below the horizon, Balthier knew they needed to make camp somewhere, and quickly.

"There is a cave," Fran said, sensing their need. She gestures at what appears to him as blinding whiteness. He grasps her hand and lets her lead, offering his own to whoever is behind him.

With the wind threatening a blizzard down on their heads, they struggle as a human chain through the snow. If not for Fran's sharp senses, they would surely have been lost.

"Praise be to Lente!" Fran finally gasps. Balthier has to stoop to enter the cave which, thankfully, is facing away from the wind.

"Or any other deity for that matter," he responds, knowing his blaise way with religion will annoy Fran greatly.

Balthier feels quite strange upon finding Ashe's hand affixed to his own when they reach relative safety. The princess is white-lipped and shaking, and doesn't say a word nor make any attempt to let go.

He clears his throat awkwardly.

He casts an anxious glance at Basche, who is scrabbling to start a fire.

It would be ungentlemanly and rude to shake out of her grip, so he awkwardly pats her on the shoulder.

Finally, it is Penelo who solves his dilemma, gently taking the Princess by the other hand and pulling her in the direction of the relative warmth of the fire. It appears they are finally safe.

"The wind is changing," Fran says suddenly, appearing behind him.

A few frantic minutes later, they have blocked off the entrance with snow, save for a tiny sliver for the air to penetrate at the top.

The issues that are soon to follow are hardly surprising. After all, at this point, Balthier's poor spirits are beginning to topple over into bad mood territory. They are all cold, tired and sick of running a losing race. And, well, there is also an odd smell...

Fran is the first to notice, and wrinkles her nose delicately. No need to raise an alarm, for it could be that she is just in an enclosed space with humes. This air is nothing like the poisonous effluent of a Marlboro, so she puts it out of her mind.

Balthier, to his credit, is second, testament to what living with a viera can do to improve one's senses.

"_Vaan...!_" he says, exasperated. "Please have a care for your companions."

"...Wha?" asks the half-frozen boy. His face screws up. "Uggh, no, that's definitely _not_ me!"

Balthier sinks down next to the fire, managing the feat without slumping too inelegantly.

"What is wrong with the air? Could it be poisonous?" wonders Ashe. She makes to get up, but like everyone else, she is exhausted.

This is not the typical mustiness of a cave, but dryer and grittier. The cave is quite small, so Balthier is at a loss as to where it is coming from.

"Sulfur," says Fran.

"And ash, though not of the princess variety," Balthier adds.

Fran turns to him. "You are learning."

Her approval warms him up somewhat.

"Come," she gestures, this time offering her hand. It is like ice.

_'Dear gods, she must be cold,'_ Balthier thinks, reaching for the fastenings of his vest. Though not designed for cold, it surely must be warmer than her own garb.

"Come," she insists, tugging him along, "We must find the source."

"Well, alright," he agrees, abandonning the attempt.

"There really isn't much to explore. It's just a little cave," Penelo warns. She too is huddled near the fire, whispering newly-learnt fire spells under her breath.

Balthier smirks. "When a lady offers you her hand, you follow her wherever she wishes to take you."

"No way am I leaving this fire!" Vaan exclaims.

"Terribly sorry Vaan, but your lady love there has the final say," he says, shrugging.

Penelo is a little embarrassed, and stares at her hands.

"She's not my _lady love_," mutters Vaan.

By this time, the sky-pirate duo have disappeared elsewhere.

Balthier has no notion that the inky blackness of the cave walls hid an even darker tunnel leading deeper into the mountain. Yet here he is, wandering after Fran as the air grows even more pungent, and oddly enough, warmer.

Suddenly, they round a corner and emerge into a wider cavern. The walls glow with an eerie light, though Balthier can barely see for the steam.

Fran lays her hand on the wall. "A type of fungus," she explains. "It feeds off the darkness to give off light."

"That something such as this exists is...a wonder," says Balthier quietly, forgetting himself. Fran gives him a Look.

He returns it with the most put-upon expression he can muster. "Praise be to Lente."

A smile flashes through the mist.

A large hollow of bubbling water lies at their feet, the source of the pungent smell of sulfur they had all complained of. But they were not complaining now.

"A fire-water pool," says Fran reverently. "They run deep in the earth. The Wood once said they were dragon's tears, seeping from their burning eyes."

"Good gods, this would be much better than that poor excuse for a fire out there," Balthier says, finally feeling as though not everything is going quite so wrong.

Fran is just standing there, poised on the edge.

"Fran, did you know this was here?"

In response, his companion abruptly kicks off her heels and pulls him closer. He hasn't realised until now that they are still holding hands. Now, she does not take her eyes off his.

He grins. "My dear..."

"You must follow me wherever I wish to go," says she, taking another step.

Then another.

And if they return later with water still steaming off their hair, perhaps it is a good thing that everyone else is too excited about their discovery to comment on anything else.


	19. Lucky

**A/N - **Hello there! Just wanted to thank everyone who has ever read or reviewed my story. This is especially for you! ~Also, I _may_ have gotten distracted by a certain game called Dragon Age: Origins, which was amazing. Ok, ok, Alistair may be cute, and a bit hilarious, but in the suavity stakes Balthier is a fair distance ahead, I'll say that much. My arm is in a cast as we speak, so please don't be too harsh on me...

* * *

_Lucky_

He has never called himself a lucky man.

Balthier and his partner plan all sorts of spectacular heists together, plans so risky that it's a wonder they manage to pull off a single one. And yet they do. Knowledge of meticulous details factors into it somewhat. Often, as they are watching, Fran will whisper to him which guards favour coffee, which have had a drink or two and so on, and he tries not to show how ticklish that makes him. Professional whenever on the job, as always. They take all of this into account and learn to recognise those who are more alert, and therefore dangerous.

Luck has never factored into it. Into any of it.

When Balthier was a young lad, his dream was to follow his father in the pursuit of science. Dr Cid often did not have time to spend with his son, so young Ffamran imagined it would be rather marvelous working side by side. Unfortunately for him, there was the not too insignificant issue of his father's insanity. If he was one of those other boys, the lucky ones with a real mother and father, maybe he could have been whatever he wanted to be.

He shakes his head, as if to remove the thought from his head. He has not been Ffamran for a long time now, and fathers could be done without. He should get back to sorting out the finances. The _Strahl_ was not the cheapest lady to fly, by no means. If only his admirers knew about the less glamorous side of sky pirating! Fran has certainly teased him about it often enough, though today she has been rather silent about the whole thing.

"Fran, what are you doing over there? Do you remember how much oil we collected from that Bergemont chap?" Balthier asks, aiming his question in the direction of the couch.

No response.

"Fran?" he asks again.

He peers over the top, and sees her on her side and fast asleep. She looks so peaceful. One arm rests underneath her head, the other curled into her chest. Brushing a loose strand of hair from her face, all thoughts of childhood and oil and airships passes from Balthier's mind.

He quietly shuffles off in search of a blanket. He is quite certain they have at least one. After all, how could he forget that horrible, crocheted mass of wool that Fran found at the market and became attached to? He rifles to the back of the cabinet, finally locating it.

Still trying to be quiet, he re-enters the room and gently covers her with it.

Fran's nose twitches. She sneezes. "I fell asleep?" she wonders, sitting up with the ease an grace of one who is used to waking up with their wits about them. She turned to her companion. "You did not wake me, Balthier?"

"Believe me, my dear, I made the attempt, however you were too far gone," he insists.

"We have work to do, do we not?" She looks down, seeming to notice the blanket. "Ah, this is...my favourite," she says, running her fingers through the gaudy woolen colours.

"I am still at a loss as to why you bought that," Balthier mutters.

Fran eases herself back onto the couch, merely commenting that it was warm, and by far the warmest thing she owns. And it wasn't metal.

"Go to sleep Fran," he says quietly. "I'll wake you up when we're finished here."

As he slides the last of the papers back into the draw, the lantern is burning low and dim. He glances towards Fran on the couch and once again, hasn't the heart to wake her. So he gathers her long-limbed body into his arms and carries her off to her bedroom.

Carefully, he slides her under the blankets, planting a light kiss on her forehead. Yes, it is a rather sentimental gesture, but he can be a sentimental man when moments like these let him forget that his father never cared, and that at the end of a day spent marauding the skies, there's always paperwork to do. He will have to make up for these thoughts by acting especially cantankerous next time he sees that little scamp Vaan.

The nightstand candle flickers slightly, guttering under the wind that seeps beneath the cracks in the windowpane. Balthier climbs into his side of the bed before it goes out, listening to Fran breathing calmly and peacefully, and feels oddly calm and peaceful himself.

He has never been a lucky man, merely fortunate.


	20. Regret

**A/N - **A timely update for once. I hope to update once a week/fortnight. I was originally going for a more lighthearted theme, but I'm saving it for next time.

_Regret_

Regret is something upon which Fran often reflects, though in viera culture there is no such concept. You moved forward and did not look back, for the Wood always guided her daughters toward the right course of action. Yes, long before she learned to shape the word in the strange hume tongue, she had known it well.

_A pair of couerl kittens, playing. She is drawn in by their curiosity and pure vitality, and quite unable to tear herself away. One begins splashing in a nearby puddle, and with an arrogant paw, flicks a few droplets onto its companion. An all-out battle ensues. She wonders idly where their mother is, but it is late so she returns to Eruyt._

_She retraces her steps the next day, wondering what had become of the cubs. Entering the clearing...she finds them slain. She scents traces of cold iron in the air, the poisoned barbs of hunter's arrows. No doubt hunted for their pelts. Sickening. If only she had- _

_Her fists clench tightly. She was careless and thoughtless. She failed to protect the children of the Wood. Distressed, she runs in great, loping strides to the village and tells Jote what has taken place._

_Jote sighs, stroking Fran's hair as she weeps. "You are young yet my sister. Life, death, such is the way of the Wood. You must walk on."_

"_Walk on? But-"_

"_Walk on, my sister. Do not look back. All that happens is as it should."_

Time passed,

It was her first tentative steps into the world of Humes that introduced her to this emotional peculiarity. Humes were constantly wishing they had done something differently, always looking back upon the past with crinkled brow and downturned mouth. A father sees his son and wishes for the days of his strength and youth. A mother looks upon her babe and wonders how long ago she danced at the midsummer fair, catching the eyes of all the young men by the fire.

Fran would sometimes find herself in a hume city, wishing ardently for the forest and the sky.

For a time, she wanders through the deserts, but they burn her skin by day and chill her to the bone by night. She marvels at the wide expanse of the Giza plains, but soon they flood and become too dangerous to wander alone.

Fran only returns to Golmore Jungle once, and that is alongside her travelling companions, the Princess, the orphans and the Captain. Balthier had known it was her home, known very well that she had left one day and never returned, but it still does nothing to quell the stinging rejection and embarrassment of having her passage barred. What was once as familiar to her as the inner workings of the Strahl is now cold and unyielding. Balthier chatters, tries to reassure her in his bantering way, but she can only reply with the same measure of coldness that she feels emanating from this jungle.

She can feel a heavy weight pressing on her chest, interrupted only with the beating of her heart. She wants to be as one with this place once more, wants it so badly that she feels sick. Still, she forces it back down.

They make camp in an abandoned clearing. The young ones are glad they have found an old hut to take refuge in, even if it is a little cramped. The Captain, as ever, opts to take first watch, and settles into his vantage point. Everyone is chattering and happy. Why is everyone chattering and happy? _'Humes are_ _loud and noisy creatures,'_ she thinks uncharitably, despite the fact that they are scarcely speaking louder than a breath of a whisper.

She wanders off. She can easily tell that Balthier has followed her. She knows the sound of his tread too well, lazy, long-limbed and deceptively efficient. Turning on her heel, she confronts him angrily.

"I wish to be _alone,_' she hisses. Balthier looks a bit hurt, and it is a measure of his trust in her that the suave smirk does not make an appearance to hide it.

"Fran, you're- crying," he says, sounding a little wobbly and uncertain, as if he would never have expected it of her.

Fran touches her hand to her face. There is wetness there. "I do not...I never-" she says a little wildly. But she remembers, suddenly, two couerl cubs playing in a puddle. "I-" she tries again. She looks down at her hands, feeling the pressure in her chest and behind her eyes build up once again.

A firm arm circles around her, helping her sit gently on the ground. A handkerchief is produced, which Fran uses to roughly wipe her face.

"I thought you gave it to Penelo," she says, absurdly remembering something so inconsequential.

"A gentleman must have a handkerchief for every occasion," is all Balthier says.

Fran finds herself unable to say anything, so foolish she feels all puffed up with hume passions. Instead she takes a breath to fill her aching chest.

"The occasion is that you are upset. I-do not want you to be upset," Balthier adds.

She exhales. The anger drains away.

"Fran."

"I am a daughter of the Wood." Her words come out haltingly. "But she has rejected me and I am as nothing to her."

"I thought as much, however you have known this for quite some time. Tell me, what is the real reason?"

Damn the hume! She could never lead him off with such a tiny admission. And yet...

"I...regret leaving," she states baldly.

There is a long pause, the seconds counted in her laboured breath. She feels Balthier shift beside her.

"I regret leaving Archades, you know," he says finally. Fran is surprised.

"You have always seemed...pleased to have liberated yourself," she says, startled. Truly, the sky pirate finds plenty of opportunities to throw, _'At least we're not in Archades!'_ into their conversations if a heist has become particularly unpleasant.

"Oh yes, pleased would be an understatement m'dear! However, there are oft times when I-wonder what it would have been like, had I stayed..."

"I feel...the same," Fran says tentatively. There is still an ache in her chest, as if something has been taken from her. "And yet I feel alone."

Balthier places his hand under her chin, turning her head to face him. "And yet you are not."

She is no longer young and fragile, breaking at the sight of pointless death. She does not weep. Her sister is no longer here to soothe her fears. Eruyt is no longer her home. And yet despite the lack she feels warm and comforted as this hume gently strokes her hair and murmurs in her ear._  
_


	21. Reputation

**A/N - **Hello there to you, both loyal readers and new readers, and even possibly occasional readers! I want to thank everyone for sticking with this sporadically updated story of mine. I very much appreciate reading your reviews and lovely messages:) I've decided to finish up _A Viera and a Hume_ with the next chapter (and hopefully it won't take too long to post) as my last for this story. Next I hope to try out a couple of other fandoms, but I may come back to other Bal/Fran stories in the future. In the meantime, please enjoy and thank-you all! Fralthier forever 3

* * *

_Reputation  
_

"So, uh...Balthier, what I'm trying to ask you is, well..." Vaan begins nervously.

The sky pirate in question has thus far managed to subvert some, if not all of Vaan's incessant hinting towards a certain topic, but it seems to Balthier that the boy has finally grown a spine and decided to speak his mind.

"Hmm, I take it this is a subject of some importance?" he asks. The boy nods somewhat vigorously. "Very well then, squeeze your eyes shut and be out with it."

The scene: A tavern, a little more on the worn side of careworn, with creaking floorboards and uneven bar stools. The leading man has gone incognito in order to exchange news with some associates who have not yet arrived. He is currently a finger along the counter, wrinkling his nose at the grime and dirt that comes clear.

Suddenly, something new is added to the scene, something completely unscripted and bedecked in a too-short vest.

Vaan gives a happy little grin when he finds who he's looking for. "Balthier! _There_ you are! Nono said you were at the local tavern, so I thought you'd be at the Sandsea, so I went there and Tomash said you hadn't been in for awhile. I ended up asking the whole bar if they'd seen you and then I had to buy a drink for this guy who said his name was Maba'Gann. Turns out _he_ was looking for you too!"

Balthier half-rises from his seat. "Vaan...you weren't, er, followed, were you?"

Vaan blinks. "No! No way! This guy was definitely suspicious. Once I realised I pretended to give up and went to Lowtown for a while."

The sky pirate is relieved, partly for his own safety but also because despite his less than informed clothing choices, his unofficial apprentice is actually _learning._

And now we return to the opening lines of this little play, in which Vaan is having difficulty asking a certain question.

"I need you to teach me a spell!" Vaan blurts out.

Balthier raises an eyebrow. "Oh? Why not ask Fran? She is far more adept in the magick arts than I." Whereas he is more adept at the thieving, pickpocketing arts.

"Uh, it has to be a, uh..." The boy follows his earlier suggestion, squeezes his eyes shut and blurts out, "Love spell!"

For a moment, Balthier is taken aback. This does not happen often. "Why?"

"It's Larsa! It's that kid Larsa! All he has to do is bat an eyelash and Penelo...well, Penelo-"

Balthier stops him with a lazy wave of a hand. "So. You wish to force her away from this...Larsa by means of a spell? Not a wise move."

"You know who Larsa is..." says Vaan, embarrassment causing a peevish tone to creep into his voice.

The sky pirate shrugs. He is admirably attempting to hide his impatience. "I know the young Solidor well, however I wished to appear nonchalant. Since you have called me on it I have no choice but to do the same to you. _Answer my question_."

"Well, yeah."

"And why is it, exactly, that you have come to me for such a thing?"

"Because," Vaan begins, red-faced, "You've got a reputation as a ladies man, so I thought-"

Balthier emits a long-suffering sigh. "You thought that perhaps I had ensnared these ladies by means of magick? Vaan, that is disgraceful! It is clear you have learned nothing from me in the way of gentlemanly conduct." A sigh. "We shall discuss this later, when I have recovered somewhat from this insult to my character," he adds for good measure.

In the corner of his mind, Balthier knows he is being a little harsh on Vaan, but this is mostly because the lad has managed to chase away those his contacts and possibly set a poorly-disguised bounty hunter on his trail. Bangaas are nothing if not _as thick as bricks._

The next occurrences are somewhat blurry. Stools clatter to the ground, and there is certainly quite a lot of shouting. His body reacts instantly to the sound of gunshots in the tavern, crouching low behind the bar and dragging Vaan with him. Under cover of the chaos and confusion, he pulls the boy to face him.

"Now Vaan, tell me again. Was there any chance you may have been followed?" he asks, teetering between annoyance and exasperation.

Vaan gives him a look which indicates that he is feeling a little less confident about the whole situation. Even so, he has the audacity not to look even the slightest bit shamefaced.

The lisping growl of Ba'Gamnan fills the room. "The one who callss himsself Balthier. Give yoursself up."

The last thing Balthier wants to do is give away his position. He nudges Vaan. "Tell him I refuse," he whispers.

"Uh, he says no."

The bangaa bounty hunter chuckles. It is a horrible, gurgling sound that no one should be subjected to. "Well then. I ssee I have no choice to do away with your lady friend here..."

"You've got Fran?" exclaims Balthier, doing away with his emissary.

"She never told me her name, but _Fran_ iss as good as any," says, or rather, lisps Ba'Gamnan.

Balthier's thoughts race. If Fran has been captured, then the Strahl could also very well be compromised. There is something strange about this though, because Fran would never allow herself to be captured. No, she would fight back with arrows and claws and deadly magicks.

He inclines his head towards Vaan. "Look over the side and check, there's a good lad."

Vaan lets out a disbelieving sound. "I'll get my head blown off!"

"Hmm. I'm still inclined to go along with it."

"I won't do it!" says Vaan.

Ba'Gamnan growls impatiently. "Ssomeone diess ssoon!"

Balthier gets to his feet, holding up his arms. But something isn't right with this scene. One of the characters is all wrong.

"Hold up there you! She isn't Fran. What exactly are you trying to pull here?" Not that he is surprised, but there was no harm in...being sure.

Ba'Gamnan grins nastily. "She said she'd been with you. A binding relationship in hume culture, I am told."

The sky pirate blinks once, twice. He clears his throat awkwardly. "Sweetheart, we've never met."

The woman is clearly frightened. Her eyes blink rapidly and her mouth hangs open in slack-jawed terror. "Y-you...s-spoke to m-me...once. Said g-good m-morning. I...told m-my friends that...that w-we..." She broke off, paralysed with fear.

"Nevermind, my dear. No need to worry," says Balthier. He pats Vaan's on the shoulder. "I believe this is a very important lesson for my young protégé here. Perhaps if you stopped pulling on young Penelo's pigtails and started treating her like the lady she is, she wouldn't spend so much time mooning after that Solidor boy."

"What? But how does this even relate to-"

"You've interrupted me once again. An annoying habit, that." Balthier fixes Vaan with a stern glare. He is rather impressed with his ability to summon up that level of seriousness, especially at a time such as this.

"The point I admirably attempt to make, whilst being held at gunpoint, is that both yourself and our bangaa friend here are united in the shared foolishness that comes from failing to recognise that the only woman I align myself with these days is Fran," Balthier explains.

"You mean, thiss hume female here?" rasps the bounty hunter, dangling the unfortunate girl by the arm.

"No. The viera behind you."

Ba'Gamnan whirls around, knocking over a chair with his tail.

"Oh."


	22. Metal and Leather

**A/N - **It has been a long time coming, I know, but it is time to bring these little oneshots to a close. I'd like to think I am going out on a high, but who knows? I would love any feedback or reviews you have to give (ultimate goal = 100+). In the meantime, please accept my thanks for reading for so long and enjoy:)

* * *

_Metal and Leather_

There have been been times, many times in fact, that Fran has packed her few possessions, walked out the door and cursed the very day she met Balthier. Yet something always pulls her back. Perhaps it is the worried crease that appears on his forehead, wondering what misstep he has taken. Perhaps it is the heartbreak of becoming two separate people, two strangers, once more.

This is the closest thing to being alone she has felt since the the sounds of the Wood were hushed to her ears. She hears nothing but the slow, metal creaking of structures gradually twisting on themselves, collapsing in inevitable descent. She herself is another thing broken as she lies half-insensible on the floor.

A deep ache in her left ankle draws her attention, pulsing with the timing of her own miserable heartbeat. Carefully, oh so carefully, she levers herself to a sitting position, a far cry from her usual grace. She runs her fingers over her ankle and draws in a sharp breath as she palpates the unnatural angles.

Disheartened, she sinks back to the ground. Her mind wanders, unable to recall the simple child's phrase she needs to heal the hurt.

Broken, useless. Ruined.

* * *

"_Balthier, you are reckless. Consider your Hume weakness, you do not," she said, studying the ugly slash along his arm. Balthier himself seemed to be forlornly studying his shirtsleeve, torn to shreds._

"_Ruined. Caught me off guard, the damned blighter!" His face was almost comically crestfallen._

_Fran glared at him._

"_It will have to be thrown out..." he sighed. "Fran, would you mind...er, doing the honours?" He added, gesturing to the gash as if it were some annoyance._

"_You could always repair it, the sleeve. I have both needle and thread," the viera offered._

_Balthier shook his head. "Ruined," was all he said. Fran sighed a little impatiently._

"_Listen well, for I am soon to give you the greatest gift you will ever receive," she said. Balthier looked at her expectantly as she wrapped a cloth around the wounded arm. He winced as she applied more pressure. It had been hurting him a lot worse than he was letting on. "Because you too, have been ruined, and are not as easily discarded as a shirt."_

"_Close your eyes and picture your arm whole and healed..."_

* * *

In the darkness, Fran smiles. Both her and Balthier's first spells had been that of _Cure_. There seemed to be an odd symmetry to this, when all else between them tend towards the opposite. They are the silent forest and the bustling city, a viera and a hume, metal and leather.

But he is not here. This seems wrong.

* * *

Balthier wakes to the dark and the damp. He is cold, the kind of cold that chills the bones and slows the heart, and knows this is a bad, bad sign. He twitches his fingers experimentally, and they are slow to respond. He would be a poor marksman were he to encounter any foes, then realises he has no gun.

In fact, memories of what has occurred seem fragmented and flyaway, like some drunken haze from his wilder days. He had been...repairing a ship? Something to do with glossair rings and falling from the sky and a city...He looks to where he is now, lying in dark and twisted wreckage. He does not seem to have done a very good job of it! For some reason, he finds this extremely funny.

He laughs wildly, the insensible caw of a madman. "The leading man has failed, and what's more, has not the strength to make his exit! Is that not funny, Fran?"

_...is that not funny, Fran...?_

_...not funny..._

_...Fran?_

He stops. "Fran?" There is no one else here

* * *

"_Venat?"_

"_Pardon, father?" The young man was puzzled. There was no one else there._

_Doctor Cid also looked puzzled for a moment, peering at his son through spectacles that could use a good polishing. "You're still here Ffamran? I thought you'd left hours ago! We have much work to do, don't we?"_

"_...we do?" the young man wondered._

"_Not you!" Cid said, making a quick gesture of impatience.._

_Ffamran raised his hands in defensive acceptance. "I...ah, just arrived to tell you it was time for the evening meal."_

_The good doctor was visibly annoyed. "You could not have sent a maid to tell me that?" In the past, these words would have been accompanied by an ironic eyebrow or fatherly chuckle. Now there is simply the inconvenience of having to converse with someone he supposedly has some emotional attachment to. It cut into his precious time._

_Ffamran didn't meet his father's eyes. "Well father, it has been some time since you've come down to join us. I thought-"_

_For some reason, Cid seemed to find this extremely amusing. He turned over his shoulder. "He thinks! The boy thinks! But he cannot even fathom how important our work is, can he Venat?" The next words are for his son. "Send a maid up with a tray, boy. We will have to work through the night again."_

"_Not I," Ffamran muttered, casting a dark look at his father as he left. Meanwhile, Cid chattered away, talking to nothing but his own shadow._

* * *

Fran, bruised and barefoot as she is, has searched everywhere.

Then, out of the corner of her eye she spots a tiny tendril of sunlight. She hastens towards it, her limp quite pronounced yet also quite forgotten. The gap is small, but she is confident she can increase it. She delicately runs a sharpened nail around its edges, then draws back her arm and slashes across.

Once she is sure of the exit she will resume her search once more, for she will not leave this ship alone.

* * *

Balthier has been alone for many hours now, and still he wanders.

There is a purpose to his wandering, and that is to find Fran. After that he surmises there is probably something else they need to do but he cannot seem to grasp it. Ah, that's it, escape! He smiles a little fondly as he remembers the many times and many ingenious ways he and Fran have evaded the clutches of their pursuers. Even now, he can feel the thrill of adrenaline buzzing in his blood as they run, and of turning to Fran to meet her feral grin with one of his own.

"Ooof," he groans, suddenly on the ground. Colour rises to his cheeks as he realises that he had broken into a lumbering gait as if he truly did run with Fran, subsequently making an abrupt acquaintance with a wall.

"I've gone mad, just like _him_," he whispers mournfully, thinking of his father. Perhaps Fran was his Venat...but Venat was real after all, wasn't he...

A load, metallic screech draws Balthier's attention. Either his luck has run out and the whole blasted thing is coming down, or someone is making a desperate bid for freedom. He optimistically convinces himself of the latter.

* * *

"Dreaming again, am I?" Balthier's voice asks. Stripped of all drawling sarcasm, he seems younger and almost childlike. Fran whirls around, spotting the slight sheen of her partner's leather-worked vest. Relief knocks into her and she staggers forward under the force of it.

At this, the leading man musters some of his Archadian charm. "Hmmm? Either I've gone mad or you've actually deigned to show me some affection Fran."

Up close, he is quite clearly concussed, yet still manages to encircle his arms around Fran's waist. The viera lays her head on his shoulder, now of even height after divesting herself of her heels. She is struck by how peaceful it is, to be so entwined, fitting so neatly into the embrace of a hume.

As the sunlight changes, Balthier catches sight of the hole Fran has managed to tear in the wall. Squinting, he surmises that they have crashed into some sort of desert oasis. The only way out is to swim to the shore.

"An undignified exit to say the least," Balthier half-heartedly complains. He tugs at the back of his vest, now looking rather more careworn and...charred than usual, and throws it unceremoniously on the floor.

"Shall we, my lady?" He holds out a hand as if to ask her to dance, and indeed this is a set of steps they know all too well. Smirking, Fran pushes him in first before following, diving in a perfect arc.

The water is still warm from the crash and the desert sun, yet they know they mustn't linger for fear of what else might be leaking from the once great ship. Fran cuts through the water, stretching out her long limbs, only just catching up to Balthier's admittedly more refined stroke.

They stagger out of the water and collapse onto the sand, both unwilling to let the other go. Together they breathe in the salty dampness of wet sand and think it the finest thing in the world.

After a moment of catching their breath, Balthier sighs and flips over the face the sun, uncaring for his usual disdain of freckles to bask in the light that eluded him for so long. Fran soon notices just how uneven Balthier's pupils truly are. He raises an eyebrow, and this is enough to set the viera off. Laughter erupts, and her partner joins in simply because of its rare sweetness. Insensible, they are unable to stop.

"You...," Balthier gasps, between tides of mirth, "are _sopping_ wet." A wet strand of hair sticks to her cheek, and he carefully tucks it behind her ear. She also has a sooty smear across her nose, but he isn't going to tell her that.

"Your clothes are soaked through," Fran replies. Balthier instantly looks dismayed. "You do not seem at ease in the watery environment of a traditional pirate. And you are concussed."

Balthier blinks slowly, still processing the three observations, some of which may or may not have been insults. Fran huffs a little sigh and places a hand over his forehead, drawing out the concussion. She is pleased when he catches up the same hand in a kiss before she pulls away.

"You know m'dear, there looks to be an alarming amount of political...issues that will need sorting through after this most recent development," the sky pirate says thoughtfully.

"It was my belief that you enjoyed politics," Fran observes.

"I do play the part exceedingly well," Balthier says, running a careless hand through Fran's dripping hair, "However I was thinking more along the lines of, say, letting our companions sort out what needs must while we go off and be dashing and debonair."

As Balthier gently works out the tangles in her silver-white hair, Fran stretches out as luxuriantly as a desert cat, She is reminded of a time, not so long ago, that her companion had firmly put a stop to her half-formed notions of cutting it all off. He had taken up her brush silently, finally tucking a loose strand behind her ear as he tilted her face up towards his own.

She smiles. It had been just the two of them travelling together then. "I have no wish to return...immediately."

"I am glad you agree," says Balthier as he rolls lazily onto his side to face her. "Perhaps you should take off that armour Fran. It would not do to let it rust," Balthier comments, a secret smile in his eyes.

"Concussed you still must be, to suggest such foolishness."

"Well my dearest, I have never been wise."


End file.
